


Lookalike

by Quiet_Constellation



Category: Derry Girls (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, general derry girls shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-01-13 01:56:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18459077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quiet_Constellation/pseuds/Quiet_Constellation
Summary: She’s wearing his jacket.He didn’t mean for it to happen. It’s just that summers in Derry run surprisingly hot. Hot enough for his curls to bounce on his head and his tee shirts to be drenched in sweat. Enough for all of them to ditch their coats onto a big pile at the pub, only to grab onto them as the night finally brings back some cool air.So when he picks up a shearling denim jacket, head woozy from all the dancing, he has no reason to believe it’s not his. Sure, it’s a little tight in the shoulders, and there’s something heavy in the inner pocket, but he’s not exactly in a state to notice either of those details.It’s only when he sees Erin dancing ahead of them, holding hands with Orla that he realizes his mistake.----James and Erin mess up and accidentally switch jackets. It shouldn't be a big deal, except it definitely is.





	Lookalike

**Author's Note:**

> There we go! I'm not Irish by any means, but I thankfully got help from the delightful [SugaryRemus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SugaryRemus)!  
> This is also my first fic for the Derry Girls fandom so.. I hope you'll like it :)

_She’s wearing his jacket._

 

It shouldn’t be an issue. And with the other girls, it wouldn’t be. But Erin is fiercely private, and while she wouldn’t mind wearing his clothes -he hopes-, she definitely would have a problem with him wearing hers.

He didn’t mean for it to happen. It’s just that summers in Derry run surprisingly hot. Hot enough for his curls to bounce on his head and his tee shirts to be drenched in sweat. Enough for all of them to ditch their coats onto a big pile at the pub, only to grab onto them as the night finally brings back some cool air.

So when he picks up a shearling denim jacket, head woozy from all the dancing, he has no reason to believe it’s not his. Sure, it’s a little tight in the shoulders, and there’s something heavy in the inner pocket, but he’s not exactly in a state to notice either of those details.

It’s only when he sees Erin dancing ahead of them, holding hands with Orla that he realizes his mistake.

_She’s wearing his jacket._

 

His heart skips a beat.

 

_She’s wearing his jacket, and it’s making him feel all sorts of ways inside._

 

It’s a little boxy on her, too, sleeves covering up her arms all the way down to her knuckles. She doesn’t seem to mind. She spins around, dancing without a care in the world, and he grins sheepishly.

Happiness is a good look on her.

He joins in, because there’s no point in staring any longer than he already has, and Orla grins at him with a mouth full of candy. They’re happy. He’s happy. Happier than he’s ever been, in fact. For once in his life, the stars seem to align, and he’s found his place.

Funnily enough it’s among them, dancing in the middle of the road, yelling words to a song he’s not sure is the macarena anymore. He’s a Derry girl.

‘I’m a Derry girl!’ He shouts into the night.

 

Erin smiles.

‘Hear that Orla?!’

 

The girls howl in delight.

‘Erin, I think-’he starts, but she steps back, wiping hair off her eyes, head tilted towards the sky, and he gets lost in her all over again.

 

On the worst of days, Erin is as bullheaded as a dog with a bone. She’s always pushing, always determined to get the most out of everything. He’s seen her fight with Michelle over the last chip and dig up the corpse of a dog. He’s seen her cry, laugh, and even get sick on his shoes. All the while holding her head up high. To sister Michael, she’s terrifying. To him, she’s fearless. She’s everything he wishes he could be, and as he burrows his nose in the collar of her jacket, he catches himself hoping for some of her magic to rub off on him.

Clare’s ponytail hits him in the face, pulling him out of his reverie, and he stares at her in confusion. Her eyes are shifting from one side of the road to the other as she chirps in:

‘Can we _please_ hurry up? We’re already ten minutes past my curfew!’

 

Her hands are restlessly picking at the bobby pins holding her bangs back, and he feels for her. Which is more than he can say for Michelle.

‘For fuck’s sake, Clare, can you grow a pair? We’ll get back when we get back!’

 

She’s taken it upon herself to walk all the way from the pub to their house barefoot, her shoes in hand, hair undone in the best rendition of Julia Roberts’ _Pretty Woman_ she could possibly pull off.

Speaking of, Erin’s tipsy walk on the uneven asphalt is starting to worry him a little. She’s wearing those ridiculous platform heels she’s raided from Aunt Sarah’s closet, and every step of the way from the pub to her house is a step closer to her rolling out her ankle.

Or at least that’s how he justifies slipping his arm in hers. It’s not his fault he’s taller, heavier, and overall less happily served when they go out.

Might have something to do with the fact that they never seem to understand what he’s ordering. Or maybe it’s just because he’s English, and they’re not making an effort to.

Derry girl or not, he’s still not welcome everywhere.

 

He’s dealt with everything, really, from constant jabs and dirty looks to the unexplainable use of the word ‘wee’ to describe things that are not even remotely that small.

It’s a term of endearment, Aunt Sarah had said, and he’s tempted to believe her.

 

There’s no shortage of wee things to discuss in Derry. Dennis’s shop. Sister Michael’s baby Jesus statue.

 

His _wee_ crush on Erin.

 

Had these people made any sense at all, had they been _sensible,_ he’d have considered talking about it. But they’re not, so he doesn’t.

Instead, he hugs her arm tighter to make sure she doesn’t fall, and holds her hair away from her face when she proceeds to topple down and empty the content of her stomach on the grass.

‘Actually Michelle, I think now may be a good time to call it quits, Erin looks a bit green in the face.’

‘Not you too!’

‘I’m f-fine. No, I’m grand!’ Erin shouts out, arms extended, facing the all-encompassing night.

 

Orla, ever the unlikely champion, grabs on to her cousin before she has the chance to sing any of her poems out loud, and there’s an audible sigh of relief amongst the group.

She stumbles back into his arms, grabbing both his hands, and his breath hitches when her face comes dangerously close to his.

 

It’s a nothing but a wee crush, he reminds himself sternly. It’s just Erin.

 

She’s a Derry girl, like the rest of them.

She’s a Derry girl who just happens to be wearing his jacket, and it makes him want to close the distance between their faces. Maybe. Definitely.

He smiles at her, partly because he can’t help himself, partly because he wants her to smile back. And she does.

 

Yeah.

 

He’s lucky Irish people are quite liberal with the usage of the word.

 

* * *

 

When he wakes up, hours later, his head is pounding like church bells have decided to relocate into his brain.

He can’t remember where he is, let alone who, until his eyes finally settle on the denim jacket on the back of his chair.

 

Right. James. _Derry_. Erin’s jacket.

 

Erin’s jacket that he forgot to return and that she loves more than she probably loves her own mum.

She’s going to kill him.

He tumbles out of bed, trying to maintain some kind of balance, only to trip on what appears to be Michelle’s passed out body.

His cousin groans, swatting imaginary flies around her head, and he carefully steps around her.

As he takes the coat off the chair, something falls out of the pocket, dropping to the floor with a quiet thud.

 

He frowns, and his face loses all colouring as soon as he realizes what he’s staring at.

 

Big red letters spell out a sentence scarier than the last scene of _Carrie_.

 

_Propriety of Erin Quinn (Orla, Keep OUT!!!!)_

 

* * *

 

 

 

‘This is a nightmare.’

 

She’s spinning out of control. Gone is her colourful spirit from last night, replaced instead with a blasted migraine and a sense of deep shame. She glares at the jacket now resting on the edge of her bed, mouth pinched into a thin line.

So what if she picked the wrong jacket? It's no big deal.

 

Except she’s pretty sure she knows who’s currently wearing hers, and it’s actually a massive, _massive_ deal.

 

‘I don’t think he’s read it, Erin. You said so yourself, you wrote it on the cover. James wouldn’t do that.’

Clare twiddles her thumbs, a hopeful smile on her face.

‘Right. Because that’s stopped Orla before. Catch yourself on, Clare!’

 

James has her jacket. He has her jacket, and her _diary_. Diary she thought would be safer with her than in her bedroom, away from the prying eyes of her entire family.

‘I don’t get it. It’s nothin’ we haven’t heard before. Plus there’s the _borin’_ component…’

‘My thoughts are not borin’!’ she seethes, pacing in the room.

‘So they are.’ Orla chimes in.

 

Unlike Clare and Orla, she’s very much aware of the sensitive material her diary holds.

 

Stupid list.

 

She wasn’t even thinking straight when she'd written it. She had been on a high from winning that essay competition, not to mention seeing Jenny’s dejected face as her story was read out loud in front of the whole school.

 

She doesn’t actually remember much from the essay itself. What she remembers, however, is how amazing she felt celebrating with her friends that night.

She remembers Michelle, a pacifier in her mouth, climbing on the pub’s table and Dennis yelling at her to come down. Clare’s elated laughter, and Orla trying on a variant of her classic step aerobics.

Most of all though, she remembers James’ hand on the small of her back, and the chill that ran down her spine.

 

A chill she had then proceeded to describe in excruciating details in her diary.

A chill that made her think about stupid, stupid things she promised she’d never tell another soul about.

 

She grabs his jacket, trying not to make too much of a face as she puts it on.

It smells like boy. Like a real, live boy.

 

‘Right. Off with my head, then.’

 

* * *

 

He opens the door to find her staring at him like a deer in headlights.

 

She knows. She knows he’s got her jacket, her diary, and she’s about to go absolutely mental on him.

So this is how he’ll die. Beaten to death by the girl he possibly, maybe, definitely has a crush on.

 

He really thought he was going to make it to at least fifty.

‘Hey.’

‘Hi.’

 

She stands in the doorway, hesitant to come in. In the cold light of day, his jacket really does look massive on her. She gives him a shaky smile, and he suddenly wonders if she’s alright. He's not used to Erin being so... demure. He was expecting a scream fest, to be called an eejit or a perve. Maybe both. Instead, she just says:

‘I thought that you might want that back.’

 

He coughs.

‘Right, thanks.’

 

She’s looking everywhere but at him, and it’s making him anxious. As she gestures to take it off, he blurts out:

‘You know, you could always keep it! It suits you better than it suits me.’

 

She blinks, once, twice, her cheeks blushing, and he wants to slap himself.

‘It’s too big for me.’

‘Right.’

 

She takes the coat off then, and he can’t help but feel a bit dejected.

‘I believe this is yours.’ he says, handing her her own jacket.

 

She grabs it without a word, and stares at the red notebook he’s holding in his right hand with fear in her eyes.

‘Well then.’ She finally says after what seems to be a good five minutes.

‘Listen, there’s something I’d like to talk to you about-’

‘Christ, Erin. You look like shite.’ Michelle says, her head poking through the door.

 

He exhales slowly, closing his eyes in the process.

‘Honestly, Michelle. Privacy!’

 

She shrugs, placing an arm around his shoulders. In front of them, Erin’s face turns a dark shade of pink. She grabs her diary back from him, shoving it into her backpack.

‘It’s alright, James. I was about to head out anyway!’

‘Wait, there’s-’

 

Without waiting for the end of his sentence, she walks, nay, _sprints_ out of their porch. Behind him, Michelle scoffs.

‘Always knew she’d go mental!’

 

* * *

 

He knows it’s his. The shoulders fit. The collar is soft where he usually rubs his nose in, a gesture he tends to do when he’s anxious.

But somehow, it’s never felt more wrong.

 

He thinks back to the night before, to Erin dancing in the street. To how much he’d wanted to kiss her then, and how much he wants to kiss her in general.

But he’s the _wee English fella_. Worse, he’s one of them now. There’s nothing he can do to make her see him in a different way. He’s had a hard enough time being accepted into their group, and maybe it’s not worth jeopardizing their friendship.

Either way, he should just be glad to have gotten his jacket back.

 

Instead, his thoughts keep circling back to her, even as he’s walking through the empty streets of Derry. A drop of water falls on his nose.

Summer, much like his mood, seems to have turned sour. 

 

He’s walking up the hill, hoping for some peace and quiet, when he sees her.

Erin must have noticed him, too, because she turns away swiftly. So swiftly, in fact, that she proceeds to trip on her shoelaces.

 

He runs, holding out a hand for her to grab.

‘Are you alright?!’

 

* * *

 

 _Perfect_.  Ridiculed, once again, in front of the fella she _might_  fancy.

‘Oh. Hi again.’

 

She dusts off her skirt, refusing to look him in the eye, and rips the bandaid off:

‘Listen, James. I only put you ahead of John-Paul because he’s back with that wain and David Donelly is gone touring, there’s not much choice left! So don’t get your knickers in a bunch! It’s just a stupid list, really!’

 

‘Erin.’ He tries, but she starts walking towards the top of the hill, fists clenched against her body.

 

‘-and besides, you’re English, so you don’t count! Worse, you’re one of us and I gather Grandda would properly kill you if you tried anything!’

‘Erin!’ He yells as he grabs her sleeve, eyes begging her to slow down.

 

She’s out of breath, and she probably looks like a damn fool. She certainly feels like one.

‘I didn’t read it.’ He says softly.

 

She stares at him in shock.

‘What?’

‘Your diary. I didn’t read it.’

‘Oh.’

 

Her heart is beating a mile a minute.

‘I wouldn’t do that.’

‘No. Of course, you wouldn’t.’

 

She scoffs, her head retreading into her neck, and he smiles. It's not his usual goofy grin. It's a sly, half smile that makes her think that he’s becoming entirely too dangerous. She can barely handle the boy who used to put mousse in his hair and kept his friends across the barricade teddy bear longer than he’s willing to admit.

This new, more confident, less… _En_ _glish_? James? Forget it. She's lucky there's a bench near them to sit on, because her knees are buckling.

‘So, that list…’ he starts, sitting right beside her.

‘It’s nothing!’

‘Right.’

 

She shrugs, suddenly conscious of her disheveled hair, burning cheeks, and general state of disarray.

‘I mean… It’s just a stupid list of fellas. It doesn’t mean anything, so don’t get any ideas. ’

 

She starts wringing her hands, biting her lip nervously. 

‘Please don’t tell the other girls?’

 

He frowns. Christ but he looks cute when he’s confused.

‘Tell them what, Erin? That I’m on some list of boys you know?’

‘No, it’s not! Like that…’ She sighs, a contrite smile on her face.

 

She quickly pulls out her diary from her inner pocket, her fingers furiously flipping the pages.

‘Ugh. Fine. Here, have a look, and laugh at my expense, like everyone does!’

 

She tears a page up and shoves it in his hands.

‘Erin, I don’t want to read your diary, it’s private!’

‘Do it! I don’t care!’

 

 

* * *

 

He stares at her for a while, not fully certain of what to do. She looks straight ahead, her head held high with the little bit of dignity she must imagine is left.

His eyes lower to meet the crumpled sheet of paper in his hands, which he meticulously unfolds.

 

_Biggest rides in Derry:_

  1. __James (if he weren’t English)__
  2. _John Paul (dick)_
  3. _David Donelly_
  4. _Declan Mulvey (needs a cracker haircut though)_
  5. _Patrick O’Neill_



 

He frowns. This is quite possibly the most confusing list he’s ever seen. But his name is on it, and he’s copied off enough homework from Erin to know her writing, so there’s no mistake possible.

‘In what world am I a bigger ride than _David Donelly_?!’

 

She blushes furiously.

‘Oh come on, now, James! Don’t make me say it. It’s embarrassing enough as it is. You’re a total ride and we both know it.’

 

She’s fidgeting with the hem of her skirt, and he wants to say something, anything, but she still won’t look at him.

He takes a big breath.

‘You know, I meant what I said that day. Guys fancy girls who can be confident. I know I do.’ He adds nervously, eyes darting in her direction.

 ‘Oh.’

She pauses, and he focuses on the hills in front of them. In many ways, they feel like home. He wonders how long he’s felt that way about them, and how long he’s felt that way about her.

Much like his love for Derry, she’s crept up on him.

 

‘Just to be absolutely clear, you’re talking about me, right?’

 

He rolls his eyes.

‘Yes, Erin, I’m talking about you!’

‘Grand. Well then.’ 

She sits up a bit straighter, beaming with pride, and he suddenly wonders if he’s made a huge mistake. Michelle could be about to jump out of the bushes to accuse him of being a pervert. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time.

 

She turns towards him then, eyes bright, her hair tucked behind her ears, and he feels it again.

Something tugging inside, a little happy, a little blue.

She takes a deep breath.

 

‘Don’t tell anyone.’

‘About what?’

‘About this.’

 

She grabs him by the collar of his jacket, pressing her lips against his, and it’s nothing like he thought it would be.

It’s a quick, hesitant kiss, one that's full of promises.

It's a kiss made of late night talks, of secret hand holding, and hushed confessions.

It’s a kiss that’s over way sooner than he’d like it to be, and he feels himself smile as he watches her run back to her house.

 

There are quite many things that he’ll never ever get about Derry.

 

People’s love for the chippy. Wakes. The unexplainable use of the word ‘wee’ to describe things that aren’t actually that small.

 

He sighs.

_Yeah, he’s a wee bit in love._

 


End file.
